"I don't know-maybe one forty or so.

Bobby made a full circuit around Pansy, checking her lines. He didn't try and kick the tires.

"Could I pat it?" he asked.

"Pansy, jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the deck, lying prone, her murderer's eyes the color of the East River, watching Bobby the way she watches food. "Go ahead," I told him. "She won't do anything now.

Bobby had enough sense to squat down so Pansy wouldn't think he was trying to dominate her. He scratched behind her ears. "I never saw anything like this outside of a zoo," he said. Pansy made a gentle rumble in her throat-like a subway pulling into a station. "Is he mad?" Bobby asked, still scratching.

"No," I told him. "That's when she's happy."

"It's a girl?"

"Sure is," I said.

Bobby got to his feet. "The other guys are out back, Burke. Okay?"

"Okay. You want me to leave Pansy out here?"

"Fuck no," Bobby said. "She might eat one of the cars."

Bobby led the way, me following, Pansy taking the point position to my left and just slightly in front of each stride. She knew what to do now-she was working.

There was only one car in the back this time-the Mustang. And three men-two a few years older than Bobby, the other more like my age. They all had prison-faces. The older guy had a regular haircut and was wearing a dark sportcoat over a white shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The other two were much bigger men, flanking the guy in the sunglasses like they were used to standing that way. One was blond, the other dark, both with longish hair, wearing white T-shirts over jeans and boots. The blond had tattoos on both arms-in case anyone could miss where he got them, he had chains tattooed on both wrists. Black leather gloves on his hands. The dark one had calm eyes; he stood with his hands in front of him, right hand holding his left wrist. On the back of his right hand were the crossed lightning bolts-the mark of the Real Brotherhood.

I stopped a few feet short of the triangle. Pansy immediately came to a sitting position just in front of me. Her eyes pinned the blond-she knew.

Bobby stepped into the space between us, speaking to the older guy in the middle.

"This is Burke. The guy I told you about."

The older guy nodded to me. I nodded back. He waved his hand back toward himself, telling me to come closer. I stepped forward. So did Pansy.

The blond rolled his shoulders, watching Pansy, talking to me.

"The dog do any tricks?" he asked.

The hair on the back of Pansy's neck stood up. I patted her head to keep her calm.

"Like what?" I asked him.

The blond had a nice voice-half snarl, half sneer. "I don't fucking know…like, shake hands?"

"She'll shake anything she gets in her mouth," I told him, a smile on my face to say I wasn't threatening him.

The older guy laughed. "My brother says you're okay. If we can help you, we will."

"I appreciate it," I said. "And I'm willing to pay my way.

"Good enough," he said. "What do you need?" "I know you," the blond suddenly blurted out. I looked at his face-I'd never seen him before. "I don't know you," I said, my voice neutral. "You were in Auburn, right? Nineteen seventy-five?" I nodded agreement.

"I was there too. Saw you on the yard." I shrugged. Auburn wasn't an exclusive club.

"You mixed with niggers," the blond said. It wasn't a question.

"I mixed with my friends," I said, voice quiet, measured. "Like you did."

"I said niggers!"

"I heard what you said," I told him. "You hear what I said?"

The blond rolled his shoulders again, cracking the knuckles of one gloved hand in the fist he made of the other.

"B.T., I told you what Burke did for me," Bobby put in, no anxiety in his voice, just setting the record straight.

The blond looked at me. "Maybe you just had a personal beef with those niggers?"

"Maybe I did. So what?"

"Maybe you like niggers?" It wasn't a question-an accusation.

No point keeping my voice neutral any longer-he'd take it for fear.

"What's your problem?" I asked him. That wasn't a question either.

The blond looked at me, watching my face. "I lost money on you, he said.

"What?"

"I fucking lost money on you. I remember now. You was a fighter, right? You fought that niggerI forget his name…the one that was a pro light-heavy?"

I remembered that fight. The black guy had been a real hammer in the ring before he beat a guy to death over a traffic accident. I don't remember how it got started, but it ended up with a bet that I couldn't go three rounds with him. I remember sitting on the stool in my corner waiting for the bell to start the first round, the Prof whispering in my ear. "Send the fool to school, Burke," he was saying, reminding me how we had it worked out. I was a good fifteen pounds lighter than the black guy, and quite a bit faster. Everybody betting on whether I could last the three rounds was expecting me to keep a jab in his face, bicycle backward, use the whole ring. Make him catch me. That's what he expected too.

When the bell sounded, he came off his stool like he was jet-propelled. I threw a pillow-soft jab in his general direction and started back-pedaling to the ropes. The black guy didn't waste any time countering my little jabs-he pulled his right hand all the way down to his hip, trying for one killer punch that would end it all. That was the opening. I stepped forward and fired a left hook-caught him flush on the chin coming in, and down he went.

But then the plan came unglued. He took an eight-count, shaking his head to clear it. He got to his feet so smoothly that I knew I hadn't really hurt him. The black guy waved me in and I charged, pinning him to the ropes, firing shot after shot at his head. But he wasn't just a tough guy-he was a pro. He blocked everything with his elbows, picking off my punches until I realized I was running out of gas. I leaned against him to get a breath-he buried his head in my chest to guard against an uppercut. I collapsed all my weight on his neck, stepping on his toes, not giving him an inch of room to punch. The guard in charge of the bell rang it early-he'd bet on me too.

I let him chase me through the second round, still a step faster than he was. He wasn't going to charge again-just taking his time, punching so hard my arms ached from blocking. He caught me good at the beginning of the third round-I felt a rib go from a right hook. He doubled up, catching me on the bridge of the nose with the same hand. "Grab him!" I heard the Prof scream, and I brought my gloves up over his elbows, pulling his hands under my armpits until the referee forced us apart. He butted me on the break, aiming for my nose. I staggered back, letting my knees wobble to get closer to the ground, letting him come in. I threw a Mexican left hook-so far south of the border that I connected squarely with his cup. The black guy dropped both hands to his crotch and I threw a haymaker at his exposed head-missed by a foot and fell down from the effort. The referee wiped off my gloves, calling it a slip, killing time.

He came at me again. I couldn't breathe through my nose, so I spit out the mouthpiece, catching a sharp right-hand lead a second later. I heard the Prof yell "Thirty seconds!" just before another shot dropped me to the canvas.

I was on my feet by the count of six, with just enough left to dodge his wild lunge. He went sailing past me into the ropes-I fired a rabbit punch to the back of his head, moved against him, pinning him to the ropes with his back to me. He whipped an elbow into my stomach and spun around, hooking with both hands, knowing he had to finish it. I grabbed his upper body, feeling the punches to my ribs, driving my forehead hard into his eyes, not giving him room to punch. If I'd had to let go of him I would have fallen for good.